Step to the Beat
by Flawed Bandit
Summary: Jazz is known as the cunning Head of Special Operations with an affinity for music. What isn't known by many is what led him to that life. (Transformers Prime/G1 combo-esque AU)
1. Just a Poor Boy

**Step to the Beat  
Chapter 1: Just a Poor Boy  
Rating: PG-13 (references to drugs, alcohol, and prostitution; poverty; illicit activity; Mafia-type group)  
Setting: Polyhex, Dead End district; Prewar  
(Jazz aged equivalent to 5 years)**

* * *

"Get up, or ya won't get your energon!" A white mechling was shaking his smaller twin's shoulder and yelling into his audio. "C'mon! Carrier's gonna leave soon, an' we can't reach it!"

The dark cerulean optics of the smaller, nearly identical twin looked on groggily after onlining. "Mmm... Where's 'e goin'?"

"With some friends, I guess? Sire got 'em access t' somethin' called a sim...sim...sim-ul-tronic I guess."

"Oh. M'kay." The smaller mech let himself be dragged off the berth by the hand, stumbling until he could gain his footing, and following the bigger mech out of their room. They could hear someone in the kitchen, rummaging through storage bins and the energon cooler. Their carrier's steps were slow, like he'd just woken up, and whenever he spoke his words were slurred.

The bigger twin, Ricochet, leaned in close to whisper in his brother's audio, "I think 'e's drunk again."

"Sounds like it," the other mechling, Jazz, agreed in an equally hushed voice.

The mechlings slunk into the kitchen carefully, wanting to avoid being tripped over by their unsteady carrier. They pulled themselves up to the table, and when the energon was set in front of them Ricochet went through the usual task of dividing it into two smaller cubes that were also set down. He measured the cubes pretty well, though his did have a little more than the other. His brother didn't argue; Rico had a bigger frame anyway.

"M'kay. So. What're we gonna to today?" Ricochet asked. He then took a long drink from his cube that resulted in a splutter and for it to start running down his chin and, as a result, chest. Their carrier only rumbled a laugh and took a rag to clean up the spill while the mechlings talked.

Giggling at the mess, Jazz shrugged. "Um... I dunno. Maybe Birdie'll play with us?"

"Ugh!" Rico leaned back in his seat dramatically when their carrier had finished cleanup. "Just hurry up an' fuel. Maybe we'll find somethin' outside."

The rest of their meal went in relative silence. The only noise they made was when their carrier announced his departure with a 'behave yourselves', and both mechlings jumped down from their seats to wrap their arms around Fuse's legs in farewell.

When the mechlings had finished their fuel, their carrier long gone now, they cleaned up their cubes and brought them to the receptacle so their sire could decontaminate and put the cubes away when he got home later. As soon as that was done, Ricochet was practically dragging his smaller twin out the door. They made sure to close it completely behind them, then they both sprinted down the nearest alley. They giggled the whole way, tripping over each other. The mechlings zig-zagged through one alleyway, then another, in a pattern outsiders of their district would find a maze.

Now, sure, they'd gotten lost a few times in the past, but that's what Nightwatch and his mechs were there for. The 'Watchmechs', the Dead End residents called them. They stayed on street corners, at the ends of alleys, and on the sturdier rooftops to keep an optic on things in the district. For an area that couldn't afford, nor had the importance, to have Enforcers, the Watchmechs were invaluable to the residents there. They also turned a blind optic to the alleyway street-deals, so long as no one was harmed during one of them. Something Enforcers never would've done.

Every once in a while, the twins would look at a mech in the shadows, or up at the roofs, and wave with wide twin-grins and greet the mechs by name.

Skidding, they slowed down for the next corner. Both mechlings squealed when they crashed into a massive frame. Rico scrambled out of its way. Jazz found himself picked up by the pedes. For a few klicks, he stared wide-opticked, Ricochet's expression much the same. Then they started giggling again. The big frame tucked Jazz into the crook of his arm and proceeded to _tickle_ the mechling.

"P-prybar!" Already giggling and kicking in the big mech's grip, Jazz sent his brother a pleading look. "Pry-ee!-that tickles!"

After that had gone on a while, Rico about busting a transistor from laughing so hard at his poor twin's expense and the curses sent over the bond, Jazz was put back on the ground. He was unsteady on his pedes, and plopped down next to his brother's feet. Prybar's large plane-wings gave a series of twitches, and his helm tilted as a crooked grin remained on his face.

"We're just playin'." Rico spoke now. Jazz was still gasping to cool his systems back down. "Prob'ly gonna go find Songbird. Ya seen her?"

Prybar brought a hand to his chin. After thinking for a few klicks, he shook his helm, then let his wings twitch again. The twins watched those movements carefully, their own tiny door wings fluttering to copy the movements.

"Oh." Ricochet's doors drooped. Then he brought a hand down to help Jazz back up to his pedes. "Thanks anyway!"

The white mechlings offered a pair of matching grins and waves with a, "See ya, Pry!" before darting around him and continuing deeper into the center of their district and toward the place Songbird lived with her sire.

It really didn't take much longer after that for the mechlings to reach a place they'd grown familiar with. Both of them fisted their tiny hands, and rapped on the metal slab that substituted a door for the makeshift shack. A frail mech slid the slab aside just enough to peek out at the mechlings, and then he pushed it fully to the side. Worn joints creaking in protest, he sank down to his knees in front of the twins. "What can I do ya for?" he asked in a hoarse voice. The mechlings didn't move besides craning their necks to look up at him. They recognized the mech as their friend's sire, and didn't feel the need to fear him.

"Can Birdie come play?" they asked in unison.

The old mech shook his helm. "Sorry, mechs. She's busy."

Tiny doors drooped and frames sagged. "Oh," was all Ricochet offered. He glanced down at his brother when Jazz grabbed him by the wrist and started tugging. He waved at Songbird's sire, then stumbled after the smaller mech. "Jazz! Where're we goin'?"

"Energon!" He spread his arms out for emphasis as they scurried through alleyways and across dilapidated streets. "I bet Sire an' Carrier'll like if we bring some home!"

"But...we don't have credits!"

"Don't need 'em!"

Weaving around other mecha, darting across the streets to avoid being run over, and ducking for cover whenever they didn't recognize someone, the twins made their way to the...'business' streets of their district known simply as the Business District. They ignored the stares buymecha gave them, and skirted past dealers and their customers with a safe berth between them-really preferring not to be shot if a deal went bad. They were looking to the less-illegal sales that went on in the Dead End. That being, energon-sales. Still not exactly legal, as the mechs weren't licensed to sell, but they sure as Pit wouldn't get in as much trouble as the dealers, buyers, buymecha, and other illegals also in the area.

The twins turned to speaking through their bond as they ducked behind the safety of a Watchmech when a particularly shady-looking mech started eyeing the pair.

~What are we _doing?_ ~ Ricochet demanded, glaring at his brother as they spoke in outward silence.

~Gettin' _energon_ , dummy!~ Jazz retorted with a smug grin. That just earned a punch to the shoulder from his bigger brother. The squeak from Jazz resulted in the Watchmech (who they'd recognized as Grock) turning to give them a pointed, 'behave yourselves', look.

~We're not supposed to _be_ here without Carrier or Sire!~

~So? Grock and some others are here! We're _completely_ safe!~ He gestured to the Watchmech they were taking cover behind, then out at the two others he could see. There were bound to be others in the shadows and on rooftops, too.

~Sire's gonna ground us 'til our next upgrade for this...~ Ricochet grumbled, but submitted.

"Not if he don't find out!" Jazz giggled, startling his brother when he spoke aloud instead of through the bond. He skipped out from behind the safety of the old Watchmech, clumsily skipping in circles until Ricochet finally followed.

"Hey!" The twins flinched, hunched their backs, and turned back to Grock. The old mech's pale optics were fixed on them, and then he scanned the street. "Y'two bes' stay near'a oth' Watchers, y'got it?" His voice was laced with the static of disrepair for vorns. The twins both nodded fast enough it was a wonder they didn't get dizzy and fall flat on their afts. "Don' wanna be'a one t'tell y'creators y'didn't make it through th'cycle."

White mechlings exchanged glances, then nodded again. "We promise we'll be careful!" they offered. They were already scampering away before Grock could respond.

Darting across the street, and then back again, they looked over the makeshift tables from under the careful optics of Grock and some others. The 'merchants' watched the younglings just as carefully, cautious of sneaky fingers snatching something away without payment. After a while, they'd both managed to secure a cube each and stash them in subspace before they were caught. With that done, the twins turned and darted for the alley that would lead them home fastest.

They only made it about halfway down that alley before a flight frame landed in front of them and cut off the thrusters in his pedes upon landing. He crouched down over them both, a cruel grin on his lips. "Now ain't you a pretty pair?" Ricochet locked his arm around his smaller brother's, and they both growled with tiny engines. The mech reached down and put a digit under each of their chins, getting a good look of their faces. "Could make a lot off'a you two."

"Rust in the Pit!" Rico spat.

Jazz added, "Dirty slaver!"

Both voices were _loud_ as the mechlings shouted their insults. Immediately after, something met the flight-frame square in the chest, knocking him backward and flat on his aft. Those shouts had caught the attention of the Watchmechs in the immediate area. Looking up, the twins saw that Grock was the one to land the blow. There was another Watcher behind him, and third coming their way. Grock and the second one moved to subdue the flier, dragging him to his pedes and holding his arms behind him. If he struggled, the hold would wind up breaking the joints in both shoulders-it kept him pretty still even as he growled and hissed.

When the third mech reached them, the first two bowed their helms to him respectfully while Jazz and Ricochet ran to the safety that was the back of his legs, almost clinging there. Painful-looking etchings marked his frame to show just who he was as top dog of the Watchmechs. He crooked a single finger, and the first two shoved the flier forward without letting go. It earned a wince from him as his arms were yanked.

"Now." The mech's voice was gravelly and growled out at the slaver. Fisted hands moved onto his hips, and he leaned over the captive flier. "You ain't gonna touch these mechlings again, are you?"

"Ain't _your_ littles," the flier spat. His wings rattled on his back.

"Mm..." The etch-plated mech hummed to himself, then tossed his head back to indicate the street beyond the alley. "You're in _my_ district. These two're _my_ responsibility." A glance at Grock and his partner. "Take 'im to Holding. I'll be back when I see to that they're home safe."

Ricochet and Jazz exchanged glances as the flier was dragged, kicking and screaming now, out of the alleyway. "Nighty?" Jazz asked, pawing at the Watchmech's leg when the other two were gone with the slaver. "Ya ain't gonna hurt 'im, are ya?" Both twins looked at him expectantly for an answer with round, innocent optics.

"Ain't your concern, tykes. C'mon." The mech knelt and held out his arms. Both mechs eagerly climbed into the embrace so they could be held. "Let's get ya home."

By the time Nightwatch had reached the twins' home, they were both deep in recharge, helms nuzzled against his neck. He'd knocked on the low-quality door by using his pede-more kicking than knocking. The mechlings' sire answered and let the Watchmech in without so much as a questioning glance. The matte-armored mech carried them both into their room under their sire's, Wheelwell's, watchful optics and rested them both on their berth before exiting. He and Wheelwell shook hands, the sire also dipping his helm, and Nightwatch departed to deal with his newest problem.


	2. Daddy had a Job

**Step to the Beat**

 **Chapter 2: Daddy Had a Job**

 **Rating: PG-13 (referenced murder; creator (illicit) occupation discussion)**

 **Setting: Polyhex, Dead End district; Prewar**

 **(Jazz aged equivalent to 5 years)**

* * *

Neither twin dared meet their sire's optics. It didn't help much. They could feel his dagger-like stare both through his agitated field and their creator-offspring bonds. "The Business District is off limits to you both for a very good reason," he fumed. One of the sensor-panels on his back, too long and curved to be accurately called doors, but too short for flier-wings, was twitching.

The Business District. A renowned part of the Dead End. Known for its illicit activity that happened on a cycle-by-cycle basis even worse than the rest of the district, it was no place for sparklings. A nice, long, detailed comm. from one of Nightwatch's mechs had told the mechlings' sire that they'd been exactly in that area _without_ creator supervision. Wheelwell had been informed not only about the twins' little stunt in snatching up two cubes of energon from right under a blind seller's nose, but that they'd gotten themselves under the interest of a slaver who was currently much worse for wear in Holding.

"You forced Nightwatch and two of his mecha to leave their posts. That mech you stole from wound up _shot_."

Both Jazz and Ricochet flinched at the last word. Their sire put obvious emphasis to it.

They looked to their carrier for aid, but he was in a dead recharge in the kitchen. His arm was sprawled across the table, helm rested on that arm, and his other hand loosely grasped a half-empty cube of high-grade. He wouldn't be much help to the twins' predicament.

Wheelwell wrapped one arm around his abdomen as he paced their tiny living room. His other was up, hand covering his mouth. "This has been the second time you've gone to the Business District without supervision from either of us." His sensor-panels flicked toward the kitchen on the word 'us' as a gesture toward their carrier. "What's gotten into you?" His pacing stopped and bright orange optics locked on the twins who'd huddled up in the middle of the small couch. Their arms were locked together and helms low, gazes to the floor. "Well?"

A squeak left Jazz when he tried to speak. Ricochet's hold on his twin tightened, and he looked up at their sire. "You..." His vocoder crackled with the squeak in his own voice. "You're never home, Sire!" he finally managed to blurt. "We miss you!" Jazz nodded his agreement.

Shaking his head, Wheelwell brought both hands up, running them over the top of his helm. The distress he'd let through the bond had stirred their carrier, and Fuse was stumbling into the room shortly after. The shorter, more lithe mech snaked an arm around the sire's waist, using the bigger mech's frame to steady himself. "Ain't bein' too hard on'm're ya?" Fuse slurred, groggily leaning his helm against Wheelwell's chest.

One of Wheelwell's sensor-panels just twitched, but he did put an arm around his smaller mate's neck. "What are we supposed to do with them? They're-"

"Shhh." Fuse put a finger to the sire's lips and about tipped over as he did so. "They're jus' littles. Be nice't'm."

Now both Ricochet and Jazz were looking up. Two pairs of optics, one cerulean, the other carmine, were flicking between their creators. Neither twin dared actually speak for now.

They'd always found it funny to listen to their sire when he got aggravated. His Towers accent became a lot clearer. He'd only ever told the twins that Towers mechs were rich snobs. They didn't understand how their sire could've been one considering their current living conditions. But he sounded smart, like he'd attended the most prestigious of schooling growing up. Sometimes they, even their carrier, got the feeling Wheelwell though himself higher than them. He always talked like it anyway.

In the end, they knew he loved them, though. Whatever had brought him from his life of luxury was in the past, and Wheelwell cared to keep his family safe, fueled, and with a roof over their helms. It still didn't mean the three of them-well, two with Fuse too drunk to realize it-liked the way the sire would talk to the lot of them.

"Sire?" Jazz asked when he'd been quiet for a time.

The voice pulled Wheelwell from what must have been deep thought. He took a moment to resituate himself, somehow getting Fuse onto the couch where he slumped against the backrest, and then set his hard stare back on his creations. "You're to stay in the house until further notice. There will be no visits from your friends, and no sneaking out unless you'd like your sentence drawn out longer."

"But Sire!" Both twins blurted. If someone didn't know any better, their expressions made it look like they were about to be shoved in a dark closet for a decaorn.

"No 'buts'! You've caused enough trouble for your creators and the Watchmechs who have been forced to act as your sparklingsitters lately! They're growing agitated with you both."

The twins gripped each other tightly, their doors low with defeat. However, they glowered at their sire without tearing away from his own gaze. "We ain't done nothin' but play!" Ricochet reasoned.

Jazz nodded and added, "You ain't gonna play with us, an' Carrier ain't gonna, so we hafta find other things to do!"

"Yeah! You're never home, and Carrier's always super drunk or...or..." Rico trailed off, looking to Jazz for aid in the word he couldn't remember.

The smaller mech offered almost coldly without looking away from Wheelwell, "High outta 'is processor?"

Wheelwell covered his mouth again and started his pacing. His sensor-panels were twitching now. "You've been told why-"

"Shut up!"

The unison shout from both twins startled their Carrier back from a dozed state. Fuse looked at them wide-opticked, then lowered his doors when Wheelwell replayed the conversation through their bond for him.

Ricochet had his denta bared, while Jazz's tiny doors were pulled as tight against his back as possible. They held each other tightly, almost as if, if they let go, they'd never see the other again.

"Mechs..." Wheelwell's optics had dimmed. His sensor-panels were still and held at a low angle. "You know your creators love you. Right?"

They nodded.

"You know we'd do anything for the both of you. Right?"

They looked at each other, then nodded again. Their creators could tell, however, that they were speaking through their twin-bond. It was Ricochet who spoke up. "How come you don't quit, then?" The question was directed at both carrier and sire. "We wanna see you both more!"

"Yeah..." Jazz added. "We don't get ta see you much, Sire. A-and Carrier's-" He cut himself off at the grimace from their smaller creator.

Approaching the small couch, and kneeling in front of the twins, Wheelwell put a big hand on each of their shoulders. "I've gotta do my job mechs," he said while falling back into the more casual, Dead End accent.

Ricochet's grip on his smaller brother tightened, and he turned his helm away from their sire. "What if ya get shot doin' your job?" Distress sparked through Jazz's field at that, and Rico's mirrored it as they held each other.

Wheelwell looked to the carrier for aid. Upon realizing he wouldn't be getting it, he vented a sigh, closed his optics for a moment, then looked back to the twins. "It's a risk I gotta take. Wanna starve?"

"Wheel-..."

"Hush, Fuse." A stern look from Wheelwell silenced the carrier. "Do ya? S'a serious question, mechs."

"No..." they both answered, shaking their helms.

"Then understand I'm doin' what I've got to. To keep you and your carrier fueled. Right?" He didn't wait for an answer and just plowed through what he wanted to say. "Right. I know what I do's dangerous. S'why I'm real careful." Wheelwell accepted his mate's hand when the smaller mech reached out. He held it, clasped tightly, holding the drunk carrier steady so he could lean forward off the couch to rest his helm against Wheelwell's shoulder. "I ain't losin' you three. Got it?"

The mechlings nodded. "Got it!" they chirped in unison.

Wheelwell nodded, and then started to stand while guiding Fuse to his pedes, too. When Jazz tipped his helm, the sire stopped and copied the action. "Can't ya both find another job though?" the smaller twin asked. "Carrier's...uhm...uh...?" The mechling couldn't think of the word until Ricochet offered it through the bond. He nodded to twin and continued, "Carrier's cli-ents aren't good mechs. And yours have blasters!"

"Yeah! Aren't ya scared one've 'em's gonna hurt you?" Rico added.

The grip the twins held each other with had relaxed a little, though they did still have their arms locked together. They looked up at Wheelwell with wide optics.

Fuse held at his side so the carrier wouldn't fall over, Wheelwell shook his head. "Jobs're hard to come by in this area, mechs. We do what we've gotta to keep you two online."

A down cast look crossed the twins' faces, but they nodded anyway. "...Right."


	3. Time to Upgrade Everything

**Step to the Beat**

 **Chapter 3: Time to Upgrade Everything**

 **Rating: PG (referenced racism)**

 **Setting: Polyhex Medical Facility; Prewar**

 **(Jazz aged equivalent to 6 years)**

* * *

Wheelwell's sensor-panels were hiked high on his back, optics cycling and darting about the hall as he moved through it. He held Ricochet at his hip while Fuse, trailing a little way behind the sire, held Jazz. The twins clung tightly to their creators, tiny doors quivering and optics wide. They'd never been in a building like this.

"Shhh," Fuse soothed, rubbing his hand over Jazz's back. All four mechs were clearly on edge as the sire led them through the medical facility to the room he'd been directed toward.

Patients and medics alike who passed the Dead End residents looked down on the four of them. Their dirty frames, accents, and just the way they held themselves, ready to flee in a moment's notice, gave away their status as poor, likely guttersmechs. They didn't belong in such a sterile environment. They belonged in the gutters, barely scraping by. The twins eventually hid their faces at their creators' necks to avoid the dirty glares cast the little group's way. Wheelwell hurried along as quickly as he could, but he didn't know the facility at all. He wound up leading them down the wrong hall more than once.

By the time they'd reached Room 6F, they were late. The mech inside the room was clearly agitated with the tardiness, but didn't comment. Instead, he just placed two blueprint datapads on the table, and two documents between them.

The sire set Ricochet on the edge of the table when the medic reached a hand out. The mechling proceeded to look over the blueprint with his designation on it. Wheelwell, on the other hand, eyed that hand a moment before looking into the younger mech's optics and taking it firmly. "Wheelwell, right?" The sire nodded. "My designation's Ratchet. I'll be in charge of your creations' procedure."

The medic was young. Maybe only recently earned his Medical Seal, or was at least close to it. "Are the blueprints satisfactory?"

Fuse set the smaller twin on the opposite side of the table from his brother, and Jazz tipped his helm to look at the upgraded frame shown on the large datapad with his own name on it. The twins then looked at each other and grinned. Their fields sparked with a mixture of excitement and nervousness.

"They're perfect!" Ricochet chirped.

"Yeah!" Jazz agreed.

Both creators smiled, but it was the sire to answer, "They're satisfactory."

Nodding, Ratchet pushed the documents toward the creators. "Then if you could both sign these, I can have my team prep the protoforms for the transfers."

Fuse signed both documents first without even read through them. His glyph was done sloppily, but was at least legible. Wheelwell went next. Unlike the carrier, he skimmed through the documents carefully before signing his own, longer, glyph. It was done neatly, with a Towers-like flare that had Ratchet raising an optic-ridge. The medic didn't say anything about it though, and instead signed his own glyph in the designated spot for a medic. The documents for finances had already been handled by an anonymous party among the Dead End's Watchmechs, so the finances didn't need to be brought up. Ratchet really didn't want to know where the illicit group had gotten the credits for this.

If it became a problem, he knew the Polyhex Enforcer Division would look into it. That wasn't a job for a medic, let alone one relatively knew to his job.

"Sire?" Ricochet pawed as high on Wheelwell's chest as he could to get the older mech's attention. "It ain't gonna hurt, is it?"

Instead of the sire answering, Ratchet spoke without looking up from the documents as he reread them. "You'll both be in stasis and won't feel a thing." He glanced over a spectacle-like visor he'd put on that was magnifying the words more than his optics could. He raised a digit to stop either of the mechling from speaking. "Ah-ah. You'll be kept in the same room. Doing so will keep your twin-bond calm, and as a result, sparks stable." He went quiet again and continued to go over the documents.

A few words, a wrong turn, the twins getting lost because nerves dictated they tried to hide, and a few muttered cusses from creators and medic alike later, and the group of five, led by Ratchet, entered a bigger room than the first one. There were four berths, two of them larger with the twins' upgraded frames laying. The position of the berths left the empty frames head-to-head to keep them as close to each other as possible without one being in the way of the other.

A few of the medics present glanced up from whatever they were checking or reading over, one or two sneered at the guttersmechs, while one, a young femme, smiled brightly at them. Jazz and Ricochet both offered her a pair of identical grins.

Ratchet cleared his intake and the femme darted up, followed at a more leisure pace by a smaller mech wearing both a visor and mouthplate so they couldn't make out his expression. Despite that, his stance wasn't threatening or showed that he thought himself better than the poor mechs. "These are the mecha who will be aiding me. Though I'm in charge of the procedure, I can't keep up with both of your frames at once. Minerva," the femme bounced on her toes, "will be heading Jazz's procedure. First Aid," the visored mech nodded his helm, "will be heading Ricochet's. I'll be back and forth between the two of them to ensure everything goes smoothly."

Ratchet gestured to a side room with no door. "Ricochet, Jazz, if I could have you both go clean up in the washracks? It will prevent contamination to your sparks." A deep frown had fallen over his face as he said it, scanning the mechlings' filthy frames. He looked to the creators' even worse frames then, and tipped his helm toward the washracks. "You two as well."

Wheelwell's sensor-panels perked a little, but then he dipped his head in a manner more than a little grateful to the head medic's offer. In truth, he should've already sent the creators to a waiting room. Instead he sent them to a luxury they didn't have at home first.

Carrier and sire followed their creations into the washracks, Jazz and Ricochet with their arms locked together.

It was only after Jazz had slipped on the wet tiles, Ricochet had gotten solvent in his optics, and the creators had held the mechlings still to clean them properly, that they'd been able to dry themselves and exit the racks. Wheelwell exchanged some words with Ratchet, then led his mate out of the room after they'd both given the twins reassuring grins. They grinned right back, gazes lingering on their carrier until he'd disappeared through the doorway. They'd never seen him sober for a whole cycle, and he'd done it just for this occasion. It was nice to see, even if it made him a little twitchy.

Turning to the head medic, the mechlings scurried toward their respective medical berths. Ricochet helped his smaller brother climb up, then pulled himself up onto his-neither of them accepting the help offered from Ratchet, Minerva, or First Aid.

Ratchet nodded to his primary assistants. Minerva and First Aid hooked up cables to the back of the mechlings' helms, then they were both brought down to stasis.

...

"Very good, Ricochet. Jazz, can you do the same?" The smaller mechling nodded at Ratchet and slowly started touching his left digits to his left thumb, one at a time, and did the same with his right after he'd finished. "Very good." The medic scrawled something on a datapad before looking up again. "Now. Are either of you picking up any problems? Error messages in your HUD, or something not feeling right?" The twins looked at each other, grinned at their first clear sighting of the other's frames, then shook their heads at the medic. "No fritzing vision or pain in your chests?"

"Nope!" they both chirped. The voices seemed to startle them both as they stared at each other after speaking. They weren't the high-pitched, squeaky voices of their sparkling frames, but more matured.

Minerva giggled at the reaction from where she hovered at Ratchet's right shoulder.

"Can we get up?" Ricochet asked, already kicking his legs off the side of the berth. Jazz didn't take long to copy his brother.

"You may. But take it slowly." Ratchet nodded to his primary assistants, and they guided the younglings off the berths carefully. Minerva caught Jazz, and First Aid caught Ricochet, when both twins tipped backward. The head medic didn't seem concerned with the action at all, as it was common for winged frames.

"My doors are so heavy!" Jazz said. They were somewhat sagging behind him as he tried to look at them.

"Yeah!" Rico agreed, though his were held higher than his brother's with some effort.

A smile, very tiny but still there, came across the young medic's lips. It was gone just as fast. "Your doors are average to your frames," Ratchet said, "but yes, compared to your previous pair they're heavier. Take it slow until your equilibrium sensors can adjust to how you're balanced differently."

Both mechlings nodded. They were too excited about their new frames to care about the fact they'd have to adjust a little.

Jazz's optics widened when a thought struck him, and his grin soon followed. "Wait...we can transform now!"

The head medic nodded. "Yes," he said, "but take it slowly, and allow your creators to guide you through the process when you're home and have rested up. Don't attempt it on your own. Am I understood?"

"Yeah." Ricochet answered now, but his twin nodded vigorously in agreement.

A nod, and a tiny smile played the corner of Ratchet's lips. "Good. We just need to check over a few more things, then you two can be on your way."


End file.
